Three's a Crowd
by Reading Disorder
Summary: No matter how much the Stabbington brothers try to keep up, they always seem to be two steps behind the ever-elusive, ever-aloof Flynn Rider. A chronicle of events from the heist right up to the night of floating lanterns. Complete.
1. Chapter 1: No Strong Drinks

**1. No Strong Drinks**

The Stabbington brothers had no idea who they were dealing with when they saw the young teal-vested man strut into the Snuggly Duckling. He looked fresh from the streets, a gung-ho air around from him borne from the naivete of youth and the firm belief in one's own immortality. His fashion taste was at least something you could give credit to, classy if a bit pretentious, though they themselves were never such good judges. He swaggered in with confident, striding steps, throwing lopsided smiles freely, acting very much as if he owned the place. The patrons could have slaughtered him into unrecognizable cadaver in the blink of an eye if they wanted to, all they needed was a reason. And while the ever-classic 'your attitude seriously pisses me off' would have sufficed, the big macho men of the Snuggly Duckling always liked playing with their food first. Cyclops, the less visually-endowed of the twins, took a chug from his beer mug, eyeing the new customer warily.

The stranger stumbled, swaggered, tripped his way past the drunk patrons and waiters to the bartender, who regarded him with a murderous look that he gave all mischievous-looking customers as he sat onto the stool. He pointed at the dagger strapped to his belt. "Looking a little young for that, lad," the bartender said gruffly.

"Oh? You mean this?" he replied with all the trappings of a man who had merely been waiting for such a topic to arise. He quickly unsheathed it with all the flair of a Shakespearean actor, twirling it around his hand. It glittered in the dim lights, and had a hilt adorned with stainless silver and carved with runes. "The King didn't seem to think so. After all, he was the one who gave it to me. He owes me a big favour, you see," he chimed with a smug smile, breathing onto his fingernails and polishing them on his shirt, "I did my best to refuse, like any self-respecting gentleman would, but what's a guy gotta do when someone tries to thank you for saving his life?" Cyclops heard his brother snort. He would have joined in too, but he didn't really think it wasn't the effort. He may be half-blind, but even he could see the near-identical resemblance of the dagger to the toy knives that Shady Steve sells in his pawn shop at two copper coins apiece. The only difference was the shoddy paint job on the hilt, still wet and barely enough to cover the rust colour underneath.

An impassive mask remained on the bartender's face - not a hint of expression flickered. "Try not to cause too much trouble with it."

"You ask too much from me, my good man!" he cried out vehemently as he began fencing the air with the dagger. "I am such a master with this blade! It's like a third arm to me! It calls to me for blood!" he said just before it slipped through his fingers, careened through the air and stabbed deep into the blueberry cupcake of a fellow patron, showering the table with purple-jam crumbs. A low, raspy growl came from underneath the knight's helmet, close enough for the man to feel his hot breaths. "Attila doesn't like you."

He swallowed a lump in his throat. "Would you like a drink? Cos I could use a drink. Gaston, a drink for the fine man, please!"

"Name yer' poison."

He smiled, as though he knew just exactly what kind of hard drink was the right choice to impress. "Goat's milk."

The bartender probed his face for the telltale signs of a bad joke, and found none. "We don't have any goat's milk."

"Alright," he raised his hands and placed one on his chin. He was a pretty flexible person, he could try and experiment with some new beverages. "I'll have some fresh cow's milk."

An exasperated sigh escaped his lips. "Look around you," he said, stretching his arms wide, "Does this look like a farm to you? Order a real drink, kid."

"Do you have any water?"

A real class act. Cyclop's one eye could see right through the cracks in his veneer. Another one of those dime-a-dozen urchins, stuck in that dreadful in-between of age where they couldn't effectively depend on alms from the street to eke out the daily bread anymore, too old to coast on their cute factor but too young to garner pity for their lot in life. Then they come looking to try their hand in the seedier vocations. They try to fit in with the _men_.

Cyclops could see everything there was about him. He was an open book, an absolute nobody with no future, no family, and nothing to lose. Hands that were willing to get down and dirty. Exactly what he was looking for.

His twin brother, Cutjack, had been following his gaze, and he knew what he was thinking. It was to be expected when you were twins. "Three's a crowd," he grunted, his voice in a baritone so low that the glass cups on the table rattled.

"We need cannon fodder. One extra knife to bring into the fight. One extra pair of cuffs to bring us down-"

"And one extra slice of the pie we're going to have to share," he grumbled.

"Who says we're sharing?"

And a wicked smile spread across both the Stabbington brothers' faces.

They left their table and sat down next to the man, one on either side so that they could completely wedge him in. The boy might just be stupid enough to believe them. He was sniffing at the concoction, taking a swig out of the heavy-brew ale he thought to be water. The bartender's idea of a joke. He'll be waking up two weeks later underneath a bridge wearing nothing but a towel and a pair of bunny slippers.

"Gaston-" the mug of frothing vodka came immediately in front of Cyclops. "Thanks."

Cutjack eyed up the man as a predator would his prey. "Cutjack," he began, "This is my brother, Cyclops."

"Rider. Flynn Rider," he said, and offered his hand. Neither of them took it.

"Listen, Rider. We're not one for small talk. So we'll cut right to the chase. Me and Cyclops here are thinking about offering you some work."

Flynn's eyebrows shot up. "Work?"

"On the high risk and reward end. Breaking and entering. Stealth, security expert, rapid recovery. Falls into your skillset, maybe?"

"_Like a glove_," he said enthusiastically, "What's our target? The jewelry store? Tax collector's office?"

"Think bigger."

"Ah. I see. You mean the brothel. Steal us a couple of mail order brides? Hmm?" He gave them both a nudge nudge and wink wink.

Cutjack glance around furtively, then bent in closer, his voice a low whisper that made Flynn shiver with excitement. His eyes quickly reached plate-wide proportions upon hearing what he said.

"You're joking."

Their faces were deadpan. "No."

"It's impossible."

"Only because we haven't tried it yet."

"You want me to . . . you're really going to steal . . ."

"That's right," said Cutjack, "The Crown of the Lost Princess."

**Author's note**: The eye-patched Stabbington brother is actually mute throughout the entire movie. I never actually noticed it until it was too late and I've already drafted this whole story out. While it does make this story less credible, I nevertheless hope you enjoy the story I've written.


	2. Chapter 2: One Size Too Large

**2. One Size Too Large**

So maybe they were wrong about him.

Sure he couldn't shut up, and he talked the talk more than he walked, but for someone with such a huge mouth, he had this strange gift of knowing which words were the right ones to say. He was a pretty decent actor, an enviable charmer with the ladies. And of course, he wasn't completely useless with the sword - just a little haphazard. Over-eager. Reckless. Which wasn't so much of a bad thing.

Cutjack had intended to step in and finish up the guards, but stopped under a caution of patience from his brother. Nobody seems to have noticed the shouts and grunts coming from the little skirmish, and besides, now was a good time to observe how well Flynn could handle himself in a battle. And while Cutjack had always figured the most orphans could do with their 'weapons' for was to wave them about in their hands and look dangerous, this was not the case with Flynn.

He was _toying _with his opponents. They watched him enthusiastically fence away at the three guards for nearly fifteen full minutes, lunging and thrusting like a whirling dervish, a cocky grin plastered on his face. He danced around them in a nimble choreography of sidesteps and feints, unabashedly spewing ripostes at every turn to further goad his opponent. And it was working. As for the pirouetting though . . . now he was just plain showing off.

Weaponology experience told Cutjack that Flynn might be more suited for weapons that spoke pure blunt trauma and raw momentum, like a club or a maul. Or a sturdy piece of kitchenware.

"Alright, show's over." Cutjack said, his patience wearing thin when he saw neither side was relenting. He grabbed the guard's wrist as he was in mid-swing, sucker-punching him right between the eyes and sending him straight into a brick wall.

As for the other two royal-striped guards, they found out the hard way why they were known as the Stabbington brothers - as both Cutjack and Cyclops bore down with their daggers like a pair of automatic weapons, a flurry that left thirty-two holes in each guard's armour and transmuted the well-forged steel into Swiss cheese. They stared down at it with a mix of frozen terror and mortified disbelief, and Cutjack, taking advantage of their paralysis, followed up with a swift uppercut to his jaw, feeling the bone grind under his knuckles, and then instantly knocking the other one cold by smashing his forehead onto his helmet, which unfortunately could not absorb enough of the damage.

With a dull thud the final guard toppled to the ground, groaning. And they were the only ones left standing in the room.

A harrumph came from Flynn, "Child's play!" He did a little twirl and clicked his heels in some strange fandango act. He sheathed his sword, missed, and accidentally poked himself in the shin.

"Come on, hide the bodies before someone else comes in."

It took them only several minutes to strip their victims dry of their belongings and stuff them in the closet. Cutjack had ordered them to take the important things, though everyone seemed to have a different idea of what he meant. Cutjack took the clothes, while Cyclops was busy snatching up all the weapons, and Flynn was still perusing their pockets for any more loose change. Cutjack muttered frustrated nothings under his breath.

"Change."

"Sorry, finders keepers," said Flynn.

"No," Cutjack fumed, tossing a guard's uniform at him, "_Change. _Your plan, remember?_"_

"But I wanted the one with the purple stripes," cried Flinn in mock disappointment, but quickly undid his leather vest upon seeing Cutjack's leer. ("Eh, what does it matter. I make everything look good.") He neatly folded his vest with immaculate precision - not like someone afraid to ruin their expensive designer clothing - but with the dignity and appreciation of someone who had lived with hand-me-downs and shared shirts all his life, something he and Cyclops admittedly took for granted. Of course, they didn't actually cared much about it. "I can't do it if you're staring, you know."

Grumbling, Cutjack turned around. His brother Cyclops gave him a knowing, pacifying look. He was right: hate him and his guts as much as he did, but thanks to that man, the Stabbington brothers were now the closest they have ever come to being in the palace. Smooth-talking the guards into believing they were window-washers, rigging up the clever fiasco in the armory to distract the other guards - it was only a matter of time before they had the crown in their hands, then they could stuff the man in the closet too, where no one would have to suffer hearing him talk.

As a matter of fact, now that they were in the castle, he was pretty much expendable. They didn't need him anymore, the hard part was over, his job was done. He could just take him out now and leave the guards to handle him if he wanted, the thought of which made him slightly happier.

Cutjack held up the royal guard's uniform in front of him, attempting to fit his hand through the sleeve. Then a frown appeared on his face.

"Rider. We've got a problem."

He held it out for Flynn to see. "The uniform. It won't fit."

O.O

"Okay, here they come. Follow my lead."

"Good day, gentlemen," Flynn said to the royal-striped guards on the castle battlements as they walked past. They straightened up and actually saluted him back, then their gaze wandered to the pair of burly, menacing, tree-sized men walking behind him.

One of them swallowed nervously, casting an uneasy glance at the squeegees they were holding, shaped peculiarly like a throwing knife. "Escorting someone, lieutenant?"

"Ah. An intelligent and significant question."

"Thank you, sir."

Flynn gestured nonchalantly at Cutjack and Cyclops, "These good men are professional window-washers from just across the street, here to glaze our windows and give them that extra shine that would make us the envy of the entire countryside for sure." Just as they had practised, the brothers lifted up their buckets of brushes and squeegees, forcing a smile that looked more like baring teeth.

"Oh," they breathed a sigh of relief, "Window-washers."

"Yes. Window-washers. Now if you would excuse me, I will be escorting them to the skylight that is directly closest to the chamber holding the crown of the Lost Princess. Anything suspicious about that?"

"No, sir. "

"Dismissed." Another salute, and just as they went out of earshot, all three of them exhaled at the same time.

"Alright, we can't keep this up with every guard we bump into," Cutjack said, "Rider, what's the plan?"

He shrugged, "Same as before. We go in, get the crown, we get out."

"Which way's the crown?"

". . . Right." Flynn scanned the panorama of the palace grounds, eyes sweeping through the endless cityscape of towers, campaniles, domes and minarets, before realizing that even if they knew where the general direction was, the palace was simply too big. It would take days before they could stumble onto the right one. The long silence was all Cutjack needed to know that Flynn didn't have an answer.

"Alright, plan B." He cracked his knuckles, and brandished what seemed to be a squeegee-shaped throwing knife hidden inside the bucket. "We take down the next guard we see and get some answers from him-"

"Wait!" Flynn said with sudden vehemence, "I have an idea."

The brothers exchanged looks before asking a non-commital, "What."

He huddled them together close, speaking in a low whisper. "Alright, here's how we're gonna do it . . ."


	3. Chapter 3: The Heist

**Chapter 3: The Heist**

Flynn Rider leapt nearly five feet into the air. He caught the gutter of a rooftop and scrambled on top, marble tiles grating underneath his penny loafers, and kept running. The Stabbington brothers were right behind him.

He had done his homework before the heist of course, like every aspiring thief debonaire should. Months of staking out and eating rats-on-a-stick under a bridge have finally paid off. He knew the layout of the castle like the back of his hand; he knew which minaret provided the best vantage point to the streets below, the patrol route of every guard in the district, where the keys to the underground dungeon were hidden and where the larder was. But most importantly, he knew, somewhere in the labyrinthine maze of towering rooftops and bell-shaped spires, was the target of their infiltration. The one thing that would change his life forever and make his dreams come true. Was it even such a mystery as to what it was? Nothing more than the royal crown of the Lost Princess! Sapphire-studded, ruby-rimmed, diamond-crested; he'll find out soon enough if all that was actually true, that it truly was beautiful as word of mouth claimed it to be. For all he knew and cared, it might very well be made of cardboard. The only thought in his mind was that that crown was going to make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. And he could dream pretty big.

Flynn hurdled a dormer, slid past a railing and skidded through an empty gutter. Rooftop running was nothing new to him. At an early age he found out that the stall-keepers couldn't catch you if you were several stories above them, which led to clean getaways with freshly-purloined food, which was always a good thing. All these dormer-jumping and gutter-grinding, these were child's play to him, second nature. The same couldn't be said to the two brothers though.

He skidded to a halt, inspecting the back of his hand impatiently as he waited for the brothers to make the jump.

He heard a horrible crash and something dying behind him, and instantly knew it had to be one of them. "How much further?" the eye-patched one (let's call 'em Cyclops) said, panting heavily, brushing the poor bird he just squashed off his sleeve. His brother Cutjack - Cyclops's twin and equal in every aspect except the number of intact eyeballs - plummeted onto the roof with all the grace of a pirate with a wooden leg trying to do ballet. He wasn't looking too good either.

"Take a breather, big guys. We're almost there." He gave them both an encouraging smile, "Good job, nailed the jumping part. I'll give you . . . an eight for that. Now you just have to work on the landing." They made a growling sound amidst their incessant panting; obviously they were not very fond of being patronized.

He leaned over the edge, checking the streets just for any surprises that might put a nail in their coffin like an unscheduled drill or surprise safety inspection- and was instead completely breath-taken by the sight.

"Wow, I could get used to a view like this," he said, dreamily. Sunlight glinted off the terra cotta roofs. Further out there was the azure outline of the cityscape, and further out still, endless green pastures, then massive impenetrable jungle for as far as the eye can see. The kingdom didn't look so bad atop this spire, for a while it nearly made him forget that it had its ugly spots too: shanty slums and shady alleyways, little kids wandering around barefoot and begging for money. Funny how he didn't see any of it up here, or maybe he just didn't want to. He had left that part of his life miles behind in blazes; it was dead to him.

_"Rider."_

He blinked for a second. The first thought that came to him was, "Yep, I'm used to it. Guys, I want a castle."

Cyclops's frown actually deepened. "Once we finish the job, you can buy your own castle."

Flynn made his way to the edge, and without looking down, he swan-dived. Granted, with a lot more panache than was needed to spite the brothers. His eyes were closed, his chocolate hair was fluttering madly in the wind, free-falling down several dozen feet. He landed atop a skylight with a smooth tumble-roll. The glass made a faint 'tink' sound, but otherwise no one underneath seemed to notice him. He caught the brothers mumbling discontentedly about show-offs and bashing heads. Their stunt was much clumsier; they dented a huge crater of broken ceramic where they fell.

"Good show, boys."

Cutjack huffed, "Shut up, Rider."

"You know, you have to ask, why put a skylight directly on top of the most expensive jewel in the kingdom?" He peered through the glass, "Look at it! It's just begging to be stolen!"

Flynn had only just begun when he felt a strong hand grip him from behind, and he was dragged face-down onto the roof-tiles. He thought maybe this time he'd pushed it too far, but then Cutjack was laying flat next to him too, while Cyclops was half-crouching, half-sneaking up to peek past the other side of the gambrel. "Get down," one of them hissed.

If Flynn could squint hard enough he could see it: the faint silhouette of a palace guard up in a watchtower, nonchalantly twirling a bow in his hand and periodically bending down to pick it up after dropping it. "Archer at eleven-o-clock."

Cyclops fixated a menacing leer on Flynn. "You didn't say anything about archers."

"New schedule, maybe?" he replied, shrugging innocently.

"He hasn't spotted us," Cutjack noted, "But we have to work quick." He shoved a pair of rope into his hands, watching him expectantly. Flynn looked at the rope, then to the brothers, and back to the rope again. A wave of understanding struck him, and he nodded. He fixed the pulley and began strapping himself for the skylight descent. "In and out. Quick and simple."

_'The dream, Flynn,'_ he reminded himself, _'Remember the dream.'_ A private island. Enormous piles of mo-_neh_. Surely all this would be worth it in the end. Besides, it wasn't Eugene Fitzherbert who was stealing. It was Flynn Rider. Flynn Rider, whose world was his oyster, who could do anything he wanted, and was not the pitiful orphan boy who sold match-sticks and worked at the coal mine until his fingers bled.

They removed the window-pane with nothing but brute force, flinging it halfway across the country, and grabbing Flynn by his hair (his oh-so-beautiful hair!), they lowered him into the castle using the rope, letting him descend down slowly and steadily. Into the chamber of the Lost Princess.

Flynn never thought of himself as the artistic type, he could never really look too much into juxtaposition and contrast in interior design, other than how much the furniture cost and how easy they would be to carry away without anyone noticing. But even he could still appreciate the dazzling display of wealth slowly growing in front of him, the chandelier glow that was bathing the stately halls with a warm, mellow hue; the grand chiseled pillars; the smooth-as-glass marble floor. The one that captivated his eyes most lay in the centre of this whole panorama. Sparkling atop a royal-velvet cushion and surrounded by guards. Yes, it was as lovely as they said.

He picked it up with dainty hands. The dream, the island, the piles of money, they were all sitting delicately in his hands right now, as if he could see them right there, captured in the brilliant mirror of the diamonds. He saw exactly what he's always wanted: a castle of his own, a chariot with the finest stallions, harems, butlers, and all the chamomile jelly you could eat. He was so close. So close. So close . . .

One of the guards sneezed.

He couldn't stop himself. "Hay fever?"

"Yeah," the guard said to the suspended bandit stealing the Lost Princess's crown, and went back to guarding it.

O.O

"What's taking him so long?" Cyclops complained.

"Hold the reins. I'll take a peek."

Cutjack looked down. It wasn't hard to hear him, his voice had this irksome nasal quality that made it never leave your head, and it didn't look like he was in any sort of trouble. It just struck him as nonsensical to stop by in the middle of the biggest heist of the century to chat with the guards about allergies. Knowing Flynn, he should have seen this coming. "Uh-oh," came his brother's voice behind him.

"What?"

That was all he could say before he felt a hot blur whiz past him and graze his sideburns. The arrow would have pierced deep into the back of his head, if it weren't for his experienced fighting instincts that told him, for some inexplicable reason, to take one sidestep to the left.

"Stop! Thieves!" the cry rang out through the air as he aimed for the second arrow.

Fumbling in ecstasy, Cutjack and Cyclops pulled at the rope desperately, until Flynn shot back up like a coiled spring.

"I have it!" he cried out in excitement and stuffed the tiara into his satchel bag, just as another arrow flew straight into a chimney, "I have it."

"What took you so long?"

"Don't even bother to ask," Cutjack interjected, "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Right. Back where we came from."

They skittered across the dome, and scaled up the walls of the clock tower, the guard shooting volley after volley of arrows at them. Good thing the Sun was out, the glare was making them all the harder to hit. Down below, klaxons were wailing, guards were shouting, and a whole army of red trench-coats were pouring into the streets below them like army ants. They climbed to the opposite side of the tower, and they heard the last arrow lodge itself into the stone on the other side with a resolute thud, followed quickly by a loud curse from the archer.

"So what's the escape plan, Rider?" one of them huffed.

He nearly lost his footing. "Right, the escape plan. I have an escape plan. We need to escape! Of course!"

"Well?"

"Erm . . . the canals?"

"They've locked it up tight. Iron gates."

"_Oh_kay. What about the slums?"

"The guards will have it quarantined in the next hour. We'll be trapped."

"Mountainside?"

"What mountainside? This is an island."

"Okay. Okay. What about hiding in plain sight?" he said with a theatrical donning of his hood, "We could disguise ourselves. Walk incognito amongst the streets. Sneak the crown right underneath their unsuspecting little noses and when they least expect it -"

"Risky."

He clambered onto the top. "Well, I'm out of ideas," he said, throwing his hands out in exasperation, " I don't hear anything coming from_ you _guys. There's only so much genius to go around here."

Cutjack peered into the distance. His eyes swept across the horizon, finally resting upon the green outskirts of Corona KIngdom. "There." He pointed. "We'll lose them in the forest."

"Oh sure, yeah. That sounds pretty reasonable. Though you might be forgetting a small, tiny insignificant detail here. They'll have _horses_!" he yelled out vehemently, "How are we supposed to outrun them?"

"Run fast. Don't look back. And if things get hairy . . . " Cyclops gave his brother a knowing look, "Throw the rider."

For all his quick wit, Flynn was pretty slow on the uptake. By the time he realized what the Stabbington's planned contingency was about, they had already slid down, vaulting from roof to roof to the palace gates. Flynn leapt over the edge, using a clothesline to rappel down to the floor where the brothers were waiting for him. They began sprinting again, past the bridge that would lead them to the forest.

"Can you just picture me in a palace?" he said with a sweet sunshine voice, as if the physical exertion of the whole morning had barely broken a sweat out of him, "All the things we've seen and it's only eight o' clock in the morning! Gentlemen, this is a _very big _day!"

**Author's note**: This has been, by far, the favourite chapter I have ever had the pleasure of writing. The opening heist scene in the movie gave me shivers, and I did my best to capture the same feeling of action in this chapter. I added a few extra dialogue, and modified a bit of whatnot, just to keep the pacing smooth.

And of course, a big thank you to all my readers, I hope you've enjoyed the ride.


	4. Chapter 4: After All We've Been Through

**Chapter 4: After All We've Been Through**

Every law enforcement agent in the kingdom must have been after them. Constables and royal guards, knights and mercenaries, even a group of allegedly pacifist bald monks whom Cutjack had accidentally bumped into and sent flying into a brick wall, were after them. Don't get him wrong, Flynn was used to this sort of attention. Irate storekeepers chased him all the time. Heck, he loved it. A little exercise in the morning was good for you, it got the blood flowing. Though he was starting to wonder if he was the only one here who did regular exercise.

"Alright, I feel good," Flynn said, jogging at a brisk pace through the meadow grass, wind whipping at his ears. He would be sprinting in blazes and deep into the forest by now, did he not have two dead-weights trailing him from behind. The Stabbington brothers were brick walls, not athletes, and considering that he just forced them to run a decathlon around the castle roofs, getting them to lug all those heavy biceps (such poor fellows) even longer and at breakneck speed would have been overkill. "Gentlemen, I say we've lost them - no wait, here they come round the corner again."

Cutjack dared a look behind, still panting like a dog. "Looks like they're bringing out the cavalry."

"I hate it when I'm right."

"Rider," it took a great effort for him to keep talking, "What would you do if we got separated?"

That was an easy question, but he spared some time to give thought nonetheless. "Oh, I'd probably leave you to the dogs and make off with the crown myself. You know that thing we discussed back at the bar? Honor amongst thieves?" He lifted up the satchel. "I forgot to mention it doesn't apply to the guy who's got the _prize_."

"That was all the motivation I need, thanks."

Then with a single synchronized leap, they disappeared into the thick green undergrowth of the jungle.

The pitter-patter of hoofs echoed from every direction. Twigs snapped. Leaves rustled. Somewhere in the distance came angry shouting and neighing and the grating of blades as it sliced away at vines.

Flynn ducked under branches and leapt over roots. All around them the jungle exploded with scattering birds and skittering critters, bleating, hooting, squawking and howling as they ran. He felt the silky, tingly sensation of a spider-web splatter across his face, but he made no effort to swat it off. Adrenaline was a hard thing to control.

"Retrieve that satchel at any cost!"

Cavalry was a powerful advantage in the open fields, but not in the treacherous terrains of the jungle. Horses were built for speed, not maneuverability; meant for covering level ground in short periods of time. Put them in a place with overhanging branches and roots and see how fast the saddle suddenly goes one rider missing. It struck Flynn as impossibly opportune how the elite guards, the alleged creme of the crop, would make such a ridiculous rookie mistake as to chase them into the forest on horseback. It's high-time he punished that.

"This way!" he yelled, exuding pure aplomb that led the Stabbington brothers to immediately follow him without question. They dived through a wall of poison ivy (he was going to feel that in the morning), taking a careful path of stepping stones on what must have used to be a river rapids, but was now run completely dry. Let's see them cross that on two pairs of hoofs. And just to add insult to injury, they made their way to a wide open glade, the worst place to be for them . . . if the horses could ever reach them, that is.

"Time out." Cutjack looked either ready to collapse or explode into fury. He was taking short, labored breaths, resting his weight on his small knees. Some people just weren't morning people.

"This," he spread his arms wide to show the glade, "This place is perfect. Private, quiet, fresh air. What do you guys think? Should I build my private swimming pool here?"

Glare.

"Mm, you're right. Needs to be more central. Riches don't mean anything if nobody knows about it." Then something in his face turned to sheer terror. "Oh no."

Cyclops merely rolled his eyes. But Cutjack, unfortunately, simply cared too much for his own good. "What?" he asked.

He ripped a piece of paper from a tree, eyes staring mortified into it. "No, this is terrible. This is terrible!"

Cutjack saw the 'wanted' poster in his hands, and nodded empathetically. Congratulations were in order. This was every criminal's rite of passage into the true echelons of delinquency, from amateur trouble-maker to nefarious scourge of society. Now he would know what it's like to live in the fringes of society, feared as dangerous men. Maybe now the pretty boy would fall in line.

Then Flynn flipped the poster round for them to see. "They just can't get my nose right!"

A little something in Cutjack died. "Who cares?"

"That's easy for you to say," he said, bending down at the tree, "You guys look amazing." _That's because those painters have got plenty of practice._

Cyclops, who had all this time remained quiet, suddenly spoke up. He always was a man of a few words, and normally what few monosyllabic words he said carried enough weight for everyone to just hush up and listen. Something about the way he knitted his brow and the little singe at the back of his throat though, simply screamed 'ominous'. This oughta be good. His voice carried a dark, ominous tone with it. "What earned you that wanted status, Rider? You're obviously not fresh meat. You've been around before."

"Does my nose really look that long to you? Does it really?"

"Maybe that smart-mouth bandit act is just something you play to hide yourself. A big fence to keep us out. Keep us guessing." He unsheathed his dagger with a sharp resonant hum (well, that was unnecessary). "I know a backstabbing scumbag when I see one."

"Ha ha ha, joke's on you, big guy. You're the one with the knife."

"And you're the one with the crown." Cyclops grabbed him by the collar, dagger in one hand, "What's stopping us from killing you here right now and taking the crown for ourselves?"

They were face-to-face. Flynn didn't blink, but he was shivering. "I would rather just a simple thank you, actually. But we could this work out, right?" His plea was punctuated by a hysterical squeak.

Then the tree barks burst asunder with the shrapnel of crossbow bolt-fire. Like a roiling wave of streaked red and white, the cavalry bounded from the trees, screaming battlelust, swords glinting in the sunlight.

They had no time for this. Cyclops unceremoniously plopped Flynn to the ground. He still had the satchel. He was still valuable to them. "Get moving!"

_Don't have to tell me twice._

The glade was no place for them. They did a double take, running straight into the charging cavalry and narrowly missing the swipe of their swords. Flynn snaked around them, the Stabbington brothers bowled through. The horses had to readjust and slowly rear their bodies back around, back through the perilous picture-perfect path of scattered boulders and gnarled branches that they just struggled through. As Flynn disappeared back into the bushes, he could hear a whinny from one of the horses that sounded suspiciously like a sigh.

He thought they had shaken them off when they came across a wall. A cliff, to be exact, with them on the lower side. Flynn could outsmart many things, but gravity had always proved frustratingly elusive to him.

He tried climbing up on himself. No good. The rocks were too loose, he couldn't get a proper foothold. "Okay, give me a boost," he told the brothers, "Once I'm at the top, I'll pull you up."

Cutjack turned to his brother Cyclops, the conversation still playing in their head like a broken recorder. A backstabbing scumbag. They were twins, and physically identical, but sometimes he never knew what went on in that head of his brother's. He knew one thing though: he was rarely ever wrong. The silent look was clear enough, and Cutjack nodded. "First, give us the satchel."

Flynn put on an expression of mock grief he had half a mind to wipe clean off. "What? You mean after all we've been through, you still don't trust me?"

The silence spoke volumes.

"Ouch."

Begrudgingly, he handed the satchel over to him, and Cutjack slung it around his arm, clutching it almost protectively. He hoisted him up. Something pricked at his elbow, but he waved it off as another one of those annoying and creepily-expressive forest critters.

Finally, Flynn made it to the top. "Now help us up, pretty boy," Cutjack demanded.

"Sorry. My hands are full," he said, swiveling his arms about in a sleight of hands. What was that in his hands? It looked a lot like -

Cutjack glanced down, noticing his empty arm where the satchel once had been. By the time he looked back up, Flynn was long gone, frolicking through the forests. His fist-shaking seemed completely futile, but what else could he do? Scream his name out loud?

_**"RIDER!"**_

The forest canopy burst with a flock of fleeing shocked birds, dipping into the sanguine glow of the horizon where, scraping the sky amidst the giant trees, a tower stood, and a little girl peeked her head out upon hearing the curious sound. She disappeared back inside, searching for her frying pan. Something was coming. She'd better prepare.


	5. Chapter 5: There Will Be Brawl

**Chapter 5: There Will Be Brawl**

_Wanted: Flynn Rider_

_For crimes of theft and burglary, treason against the crown, and soliciting terrible heartbreak in the hearts of our fair ladies of Corona Kingdom. Very dangerous. If seen, do not approach._

They couldn't - wouldn't admit they'd just been duped. Nobody outplays the Stabbington brothers. Nobody. Especially not a stupid street rat with a deformed nose, barely the age to even grow a proper beard. But still, it's hard to ignore, with all the present evidence to the contrary.

Their hands were locked up tight in rusty iron cuffs. A dozen swords each were following the bobbing rhythm of their Adam's apples. The guards had arrows with their names on it . . . _literally_ - at least a whole quiver of them, with the words 'Stabbington' engraved onto their metal heads, specially designed by the blacksmiths so as to penetrate pure biceps several feet thick. They were touched.

They were making their way to the Snuggly Duckling, investigating a lead about Flynn Rider. The captain of the guard looked ecstatic, like he'd been waiting for this for a long time. He opened the door with a dramatic bang. The pub that was normally a ruckus with noise suddenly fell into a great hush.

"Tear this place apart until we find him!"

A strange mix of trepidation and sympathy was welling inside them as Cutjack and Cyclops bent down to fit through the tiny door. Their eyes searched for a way out. This no longer had anything to do with the crown. This was a matter of professional integrity: nobody double-crosses the Stabbington brothers and gets away with it. They'll have Flynn's head on a silver platter, then they'll see how well that mouth can work for him.

He can tell the guards are desperate: they start talking to a horse, then leave the 'harmless, helpless tied-up prisoners' behind. They disappear down a hidden passage, and Cutjack could tell this was the moment they've been waiting for. Up till now they did everything right, by the book, but all it takes is just one mistake for them to get unlucky.

"Patrick, make sure those two don't get away."

Said Patrick is sprawled on the floor a disappointing five seconds later, nursing a large bump on his head. Not even obsidian helmets could protect you from Cyclops's headbutt. For some reason, the patrons of the Snuggly Duckling, instead of cheering the senseless violence like they usually do, look on in mute reproachfulness.

A flick of his heels and Cyclops catches the spear in his bound hands. Cutjack knows the drill, he turns around for him to break the cuffs, which is done with breathless ease. "Play it safe. Get the crown." He snaps the cuffs apart from his wrists, while Cyclops is already rummaging for some weapons large enough for them to use. "Then we deal with Rider."

"You're going after Rider?" The voice comes from a regular patron of the Snuggly Duckling, the one with the hook-hand. He is sitting by the piano, in the midst of playing an adagio and then ending in a loud dramatic chord. Suddenly they feel the intensity of several gazes bearing down on them. Unfriendly gazes.

A crowd is closing in, their breath heavy with rum. They are brandishing axes and halberds and rapiers.

"Girlie is with Rider now."

"Girlie is our friend."

"You no hurt girlie."

"We stop you." Vladmir towers above them, his horned helmet grating against the ceiling. "We all stop you."

The Stabbington brothers exchange incredulous glances, and shrug their shoulders. A charging man is instantly brought to a halt and thrown out the window, his sword suddenly finding itself in Cutjack's hands. "Let's make this quick."

In a surprising display of synchrony, the mob lifts their weapons and scream a blood-curling cry, with less of the giddy trepidation of breaking out into an impromptu showstopper, and more of the seething animal bloodlust so typical of bar brawls, and then they charge.

Cutjack ducks low, feeling three or four swords swoosh above him and mow his hair into a crew-cut. He grabs the leg of a table and smashes it into the face of Vladmir as he comes up. The wood breaks asunder, but the giant brute doesn't even flinch, and as a result, Cutjack gets punched between the eyes hard enough to see stars.

Fumbling back, his hands fall upon a beer bottle, and he grabs it, blindly swiping in front of him and hearing the satisfying, meaty smash of glass on someone's face, and the ensuing groan of pain. Cyclops comes in a spit second later from behind, and bangs a metal tray on Vladmir's head like a gong.

A flicker of movement to his left, and Cutjack sidesteps just in time to see a band of blackness fly past him. It connects instead with Mr Bignose, who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and he gets his nose flattened a few inches by the maul. The whole thing just descends into a flurry of randomly-thrown punches and kicks after that, with tossed tables and flung kegs, and no one knowing who they're hitting or who they're being hit by.

Cutjack stops by the counter, picks up his mug of vodka, drinks it all down in one gulp, and walks out the Snuggly Duckling, leaving the brawlers to their own weekly Tuesday skirmish.

O.O

The Stabbington liked to think they were a forgiving bunch. Let bygone be bygones. Sure, Rider may be a filthy liar and a slimy backstabber, but they could look past that. Make up, maybe break a few bones, and then part as unlikely friends. They didn't have to be enemies with Rider. Of course, it had nothing to do about the fact that his skills were completely indispensable and they would be lost without him and that killing him would be a waste. Nothing to do about that at all.

Cyclops tells him what he usually does, that he was right all along about the boy, that he knew no good would ever come from him. They take a few moments to exchange a few good-natured punches, resulting in a oddly-angled femur and a few missing molars, but otherwise they are fine and happy again. Who said violence was a terrible form of diplomacy?

They are running, for the third time too much that morning. But before this they had been running away from someone. Now they are _chasing _someone. The feeling is completely different, they are the ones in power now. And that gives them a speed and agility they never knew they had. All that was left was to get the crown, and they could still be back for some vodka at the Snuggly Duckling by dusk. Then they could talk and laugh about it while they swim about in their new pile of money, their reputations unscathed - Flynn, not so much.

Speak of the devil - there he was, up at the cliff, his hands a little busy fending off some redcoats. Something swelled up inside Cutjack upon seeing him wield that frying pan so deftly - pride, maybe, in the way a mentor looks at an accomplished student. He'd always known and told him rapiers were not meant for him, however important he thought it to look fashionably kinky even when in combat. Those hands were nimble and firm, every heavy-duty man's dream. Looks like he finally took that advice to heart. Then Cutjack remembered he was supposed to be angry at Rider, and he unsheaths his sword, as does Cyclops.

Cyclops's one eye - a powerful tool to be sure - starts working out his trajectory as he starts swinging down. He rushes forward - so does Cutjack - and takes a swing. Cutjack follows suit.

Then he pauses, the world just comes to a standstill.

"Is that . . . hair?"

That moment of confusion was all Flynn needed to swoop past him, and Cutjack misses that one critical second. His brother didn't fare better; Cyclops unfortunately was never in a good relationship with depth perception, and he misses just a few inches away from him_._

"After him!"

As they run, they hear the heavy clattering of army boots behind them, though they suspect the guards were no longer after them. They all only have eyes for Flynn and his . . . accomplice? Suitor? Who was that barefoot little girl? Is Flynn a kidnapper now?

Something large creaks loudly behind them and a shadow looms overhead. There is the unmistakable sound of gushing water, and Cutjack and Cyclops didn't even have time to turn around before a wall of bubbles and foam sweeps them off their feet. As they lay there, tossed and turned by the strong undercurrent, floundering like drowning men, choking and gasping for air like a bunch of kitten-frightened _sissies_, there was only one thought pervading in their mind: that mug of vodka back in the Snuggly Duckling was going to get cold.


	6. Chapter 6: Enter Mother Gothel

**Chapter 6: Enter Mother Gothel**

Let's get this thing straight off the bat: the Stabbington brothers never believed in fairy godmothers. Hard work, doggone determination and the measure of the sweat on your brow, that's how you get what you want. But when a mysterious hooded stranger walks up to them, gives them the crown with no strings attached, and offers them a deal they cannot possibly with a sane revenge-addled mind refuse . . . well, what are they to think?

Perhaps we should start from the beginning.

After crawling and groping through a flooded cave for hours, trying to excavate their way out through five feet of solid granite using nothing but their hands, the Stabbington brothers finally realize that there's been a manhole cover right above them this whole time. They cursed in three different languages, and emerged into the sombre light of dusk, wishing they saw the manhole before they disturbed that flock of blood-sucking bats, both soaked cold by the time they were out, water sticking to and dripping from their clothes. Cutjack wrung his shirt, trying to pretend that it was Flynn's neck, and he was dry in a matter of seconds.

"I'll kill him! I'll kill that Rider!" Cutjack yelled with heartfelt accuracy. His composure had sunk down to his irredeemable mud-caked boots, every fiber of patience stretched thin to its breaking point. They're so fuming mad they don't even notice the black caped figure watching silently from the shadows.

"Search the whole kingdom! We'll cover the outskirts, put a bounty on his head."

It was only by the careless snap of twigs that made the Stabbington brothers curiously turn their head, and for a moment they locked eyes.

A voice came somewhere from the trees, confident and commanding, "Or you could stop acting like wild dogs chasing their little tails, and stop to _think_ for a while."

An old lady stood upon the cliff. There was something strangely . . . off about her. Maybe it was her black cape and hood, or the way the darkness and wisps of mist seemed to shroud her, or simply a lingering feeling that there _should _be something unusual about her and there isn't. Or maybe it was nothing at all. Either way, her presence was unsettling, and it was making them edgy. Not because they were seeing an old woman in a dark and gloomy forest. Nay, otherwise they would have just robbed her purse and left her for dead, and that would be the last they heard of that story. It was what she was holding: a maddeningly-familiar satchel bag. Cutjack's first instinct was to unsheath his sword.

He swore he saw her roll her eyes. "Oh please, there's no need for that." Then she threw the bag at him. Cutjack caught it, too stupefied to even open it up. The glint of gold that shone through brightened up their day a lot more than a thousand suns could have. They smile, part greedy, part triumphant, but mostly, relieved.

"It's the real deal."

"Well, I wasn't even about to give you the best part, really," she said with a convincingly nonchalant tone, "Something worth much more than a thousand crowns. But if you're content with your little tiara toy, then I guess I'll just be off now." She began to walk away, her cloak swishing slightly.

"What's the best part?" Cutjack asked.

She stops, and turns round. There is a malicious twinkle in her eyes. Her voice is gravelly, but dripping with honey. "A chance to get revenge . . . on Flynn Rider."

O.O

Cutjack yelped softly and drew his hand back from the thicket of thorns that blocked his line of sight to the camp, still scratching his pulsating, red skin madly from the assault of vines and ivy he had waded through to get to this hiding spot, a ford draped by ferns and streaked with rotting logs. He pricked at a nasty rash, somehow finding the pain exquisitely soothing. Mosquitos and gnats buzzed at his eyes, trying to take a swab at his exotic humor.

Ahead was a wide open clearing whereupon the ruddy glare of campfire shone, and the phantom dusk-light swam through the shadows of the shrubs.

"Something about this doesn't feel right."

Cutjack turned to address his brother, who was also engaged in the ecstatic emancipation of the sore hives all over his body - a parting gift from the hive of bees who didn't take kindly to their honey being robbed. "It's not supposed to - it'll sting for the next couple of days, if what Flynn told us is true."

"I mean about _her_," he made a subtle jerk of the head to Mother Gothel in front of them, voice dropping to a soft whisper so 'you-know-who' couldn't hear them. "We have the crown. Let's go."

"Not until we have the girl."

Cyclops half-grunted, half-scoffed, "Fool me once, shame on me. Flynn showed us good. But fool me twice -"

"Quiet back there!" Mother Gothel snapped, "Don't you boys know what it means by a stake out?" Cutjack saw his brother look taken aback for the first time, then his expression settled into one of numb, humming rage. The comment was particularly scathing, mostly because it was true. They had left that part of the job to Flynn.

"Okay, she's alone," she said, and straightened the hem of her skirt, adjusted her shawl, brushed the dust off her cloak and fluffed up her hair, "Ready, boys?"

"Ready." They did an act that could have been drawing out their weapons, only they weren't weapons. They were violins: musical string instruments made of cat's gut and spruce, played with a bow of horse's hair to intensify the atmosphere in any dramatic song sequences.

"Showtime, boys." She disappeared into the thicket.

The Stabbington brothers placed their chins on the rest, bow-tips balanced on the string. For a while all they could hear was the chirping sound of crickets in the night.

"Why do I always have to play second fiddle?"

He shrugged, "Second-born, second-place."

"Only by a few seconds."

"Quiet, I can't hear her."

Her disembodied voice came through the wall of jungle, "_Mooother_-"

"That's the signal, that's the signal. Play. Play!"

Bow glided against string in a harmonious chant of soft angelic notes in immaculate accord, and the brothers danced their bow like they would filet someone's mouth out with a dagger: artful, graceful, full of passion. A flat, B, A flat, B. Two ominous notes played in succession that made the jungle bristle with tangible tension, as Mother Gothel sung her heart away and poured out her disappointment and reproachfulness into the girl with the magical glowing hair. The girl that they would soon sell away.

"- knows _beeeeeeest_!" Mother Gothel appeared as an apparition from the darkness, swishing her cape in a manner that would put a fashion diva to shame. "Good show, boys."

"We've done our part of the deal," growled Cutjack, "Now we want _her._" IThe Stabbington brothers' sleight of hand revealed the violin's true nature: hidden beneath the fingerboard was a knife, painted a grey shade to prevent the glimmer of moonlight from giving their position away. They clambered up, all sensation of itchiness overriden by sheer determination, but Mother Gothel held them back.

"Patience, boys." Her eyes narrowed into slits. "All good things to those who wait."

**AN**: My theory is that in every Disney song sequence, there is a secret band performing behind the curtains somewhere to provide the music. Go ahead and give it a try, imagine what it would be to hear the characters sing without any music. It's quite strange, but the reprise of Mother Knows Best takes the cake in the creepy department. She reprimands her daughter . . . in verse. Also, I'm quite shabby in music, so those A flat B thing was just a blind stab in the dark, I have no idea if it's the actual notes played in the song. Just so before you start trying it out on the piano and then get mad at me for being wrong. As always, love you guys, and thanks for reading. There's still one more chapter to go.~Reading Disorder


	7. Chapter 7: The Final Confrontation

**Chapter 7: The Final Confrontation**

The stark chill of the night made tangible Cutjack's shivering breaths. The icy mists of air meant to warm his hand burst through his scarred knuckles before disappearing above the green glow of the lantern.

"Bloody freezin'."

Cyclops pulled his gaze away from the shimmering lake to regard his mute brother. "Saying so won't make you any warmer."

"You sure he's coming-"

"He'll come."

The lantern-lit night was plunged into terse silence once more, with only the soft rustle of mangrove leaves sleeping in the night and the wail of the wind to break the deep hush. Cyclops stifled a yawn, mourning for the sleep he was supposed to have right now. It was going to be over soon, he could feel it in his gut. Now that they had let time pass and cooled down, revenge on Flynn Rider didn't seem so crucial to their lives anymore, and the deal with the old lady was starting to sound worse and worse. He couldn't imagine what they had been thinking when they took the offer, but Cutjack was stubborn. He was going to see this to the end.

Sure enough, the leaves rustled with movement, and out from the vine-walls at the shore came none other than their man of the hour.

All it took was one glimpse to know that something in him had changed. This was Flynn Rider, and yet not . . . he was strangely at peace with himself, like at the last they saw him he somehow lost his arrogance and bid his macho facade goodbye. He was walking, not in a gait, or a swagger, or anything that warranted any sort of attention, but just a small walk with a slight skip of joy, at a sauntering pace like a man lost in serene bliss. Cyclops regarded him with a look of detached bemusement. Looks like the man finally found peace with himself. Though what kind of he did not know, to make him act as if he just won the lottery to the whole world. Or maybe he did know. The girl. There was a discomforting twang at his chest, but he refused to believe he was jealous.

The parts that didn't change about Flynn Rider were still painfully annoying though, such as his need to strike up conversation about frivolous things like haircuts.

"Ah, there you are. I've been searching everywhere for you!" Flynn said, the words coming straight through his teeth, "Those mutton chops are seriously showing. Gotta be excited about that."

Cutjack stopped his exercise of sharpening his knife and turned to look at him.

Flynn cleared his throat, "Well. I just wanted to say, nice knowing ya, but I think we should split. Here," he tossed the satchel bag, "It's all yours." He turend round to go back, looking hasty to leave. Of course he was. He wanted to escape with the loot. But the Stabbington brothers weren't about to let that happen a second time.

Cyclops quickly shoved Flynn back, "Whoa, whoa. Easy there, fella. Watch the suit. I just had it dried from the river." Cyclops cringed at the memory of that.

"Holding out on us again, eh, Rider?"

Flynn actually looked surprised. The kid was always an actor. "What?"

"Little bird told us you've stolen something," he marched towards him, figure menacingly imposing in the dark, "Something much better than a crown."

"What are you talking about?"

_"We want the girl."_

Flynn's face underwent a series of comic evolutions: first from shock, then to a flicker of understanding, and then . . . anger.

"I'd die before you take her."

"Careful what you say," Cutjack sharpened his knife as Flynn squirmed to break hold of Cyclops's iron grip, "You may find yourself eating them one day."

"Back off," he spat vehemently, arms flailing wildly, legs kicking the air. His head connected against Cyclops, and the brief daze was all he needed to break loose, find a steady footing again, and drop into a fencing stance, frying pan waving in his hands. "You are _not _getting your slimy hands on her."

"This is quite unlike you, Rider," Cutjack goaded with a surprising sense of observation, "Losing your cool? Growing soft?"

Cyclops had been picking up on in too. This wasn't the Flynn they knew. They needed to get their revenge on the smart-mouth, backstabbing urchin boy, not . . . him. When you're trying to fight against someone who was so adamantly, persistently protecting something . . . someone, like his whole life mattered on her, it was almost like they were the badguys here.

Then something in Cyclops's mind clicked, and he knew. "You love her."

Flynn's aim faltered slightly. He looked at Cyclops as if he never knew that he had actually known what love _was_. His voice was solemn, without a hint of irony. "Yes. I love her."

"You're weak, Rider," said Cutjack, veering his sword closer to his opponent, "Love is for the just."

Blade clashed against kitchen utensil, and there was the sharp grating of steel.

"We don't get the privilege of love. We're criminals. We're monsters."

There was a steely determination in Flynn's eyes they never knew he had. "Not to her, I'm not." Another flurry of blows. Cutjack suddenly found himself on the defensive side, blocking strike after sweeping strike, each one more tenacious and fueled than before. Cutjack attempted a strike and found himself stumbling back at Flynn's parry, cursing. Something was driving him. A force that overpowered even his strength. It was like Flynn could take on a whole platoon of elite royal guards unscathed.

The battle went on, uppercuts and pommel attacks and dirty brawl kicks, but somehow Cutjack couldn't find an opening to break in. The sloppy, random flailing of arms Flynn used to fight with was not here. There was finesse, passion. He struck with a sense of duty. Their two weapons smashed into each other, and Cutjack took the opportunity of the lull in combat to speak again.

"You think she'll love someone like you? You think this will last?" he sneered, "You're a thief, Rider. Always was, always will be. You may pretend that you've changed, but you'll always have the scars to show for it."

Flynn pushed forward with all his might, teeth grinding so loud Cyclops could hear it. Cutjack pushed back with equal, inexorable force. Their weapons were beginning to buckle noisily.

"Maybe you can steal an engagement ring for her. Sell off that crown so you can live in a castle. Teach your children that crime is bad while you pay for their education from the wallets of other people. But she'll regret the day she ever met you. She'll know soon enough."

Flynn's eyes were screaming bloody murder. "Don't you say it."

"She'll know -"

"Don't you _dare_ say it."

"She'll know you'll always love money more than you love her."

And that was enough to push him off the edge. With a primal roar, Flynn pounced, pinning Cutjack onto the floor. His eyes were dark and clouded, somewhere in a dark, lightless place where he always went in times of pain. He flew into a berserk rage, madly bringing the frying pan onto his face in a fearsome display of violence, and he didn't stop, even as the pan grew red with blood, and Cutjack's eyes started to flutter like a moth.

But it was already over. Cyclops had been waiting for this moment. He punched Flynn at the back of his head, and he was out cold.

"Get up," Cyclops demanded.

His brother did so. Blood trickled from his nose, but he was grinning with the satisfaction of a job well done. "Like taking candy from a baby."

"Job well done, boys." The old lady was clapping her hands, sauntering up to the limp body, "Job well done."

They both snorted at the obvious attempts at flattery. They won't be letting their guard down this easily. Cutjack picked up his sword. "Job's not finished yet."

"Revenge only works when the person isn't _dead_."

Cutjack sheathed it back, disappointed.

"Forget Rider," said Cyclops, "Let's go get the girl."

They started to run, but were suddenly locked into place. Their knees felt frozen, like jelly, their blood, a thousand needles of pain coursing through their vein. Cyclops tried to move. He couldn't.

It took all his effort to move his head, and he saw his brother in a similair situation. They were both paralyzed, and for the first time, very, very frightened. The green flames of the lantern danced around them, licking their skin, wrapping the old levitating lady in sinuous ribbons. "Not so fast, boys," she said, "I'm afraid there's been a change in plan."

**AN**: Stay tuned for the epilogue.


	8. Chapter 8: Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_You know the worst thing about happily ever afters? They never last.  
__~Unknown_

A wise woman once told them: all good things to those who wait.

It's been a whole year. Nearly. To them, it had felt like an eternity, every day passing slowly, second by agonizing second. Nothing to do but stare at the walls, and exchange brooding looks with his mute brother. Their muscles have rotted away from lack of use; being locked up in a cell no larger than a closet would do that to you. Biceps and brawn used to mean everything to them. Their strength was their self-esteem. But they've been eating nothing but stale maggoty bread once a day for far too long, no one could last on that diet and not become scrawny and malnourished.

They probably deserved it. After what they've done: stealing, kidnapping, slavery, raping, murder, everything in the book, they've done it and more. They were monsters, the truest definition of one. The guards were right to spit at them and rough them up; they never resisted. And yet, even after those eleven and a half months, with plenty of time for remorse and reconciliation, some small part of their minds still clung to the belief that this was all unfair. Completely and utterly _unfair. _They didn't choose to be poor, or dumb, or to be brought up in a world of constant violence and strife. They had nothing going for them. Intelligence, looks, charm, it was never in their genes. They answered problems with their fists because that was the only way they knew how. It was how the world had forced them to become, in order to survive. Didn't they have a right to live? So they copped out a trade with the only thing they had that made them special. Their strength. But what did it matter, it was all gone now.

Now, they were truly useless.

It was probably a good thing they will never see the outside world again. The one thing that they could take pride on, the one thing they had depended on to keep them alive, had been robbed from them as punishment for their misuse. And there was no one to blame for this but themselves.

Well, maybe one other person.

Sometimes they would spend the cold, mosquito-buzzed nights wide awake, simply pondering whether it was truly fair to blame him. Whether it was worth the risk or the trouble to. It was so long ago, and they were so angry then. They were also different people.

They thought it would be easy to just forget about him, but the moment they tried to, it felt like an act of giving up. And while the Stabbington brothers were many things - most of them despicable - they were most certainly not someone who leaves a job unfinished.

Because they believed that Flynn Rider did not deserve his happy ending. His hands were just as dirty as theirs, maybe even more so. He deserved to be down here, with them, eating in a dog-bowl and sleeping on the cold hard floor for the rest of his life. As a matter of fact, he was supposed to be hanged on that day; they remembered that day well. If Flynn had been punished for his crimes and hanged till dead there and then, they would have been fine with that. There would have been a semblance of fairness. But the thing is, he didn't. He escaped. Not just broke out of jail, mind you, but in the blink of an eye, became completely track-record clean. He married a princess, became rich beyond his wildest dreams, and just like that, completely forgiven. Treated like a hero. Loved by a woman whom he loved back. Living in a castle. Meanwhile, _they_ were rotting in jail, not quite living as much _dying_ a little inside with every passing day.

The question they found themselves asking every waking moment of their suffering here was: why him? The Stabbington brothers knew life was never fair. They grew up unfair, they knew unfair. But after being exposed to so many hogwash about crime and the law, and being on the receiving end of it, they had actually bought into some of it, that this was why there was justice, to punish the wicked and restore the innocent, and that justice did its job unfailingly well. There were no exceptions. One magical night of love and fairytale heroics cannot undo an entire life of delinquency and profiting from the misfortunes of others.

What exactly were they crying out for: vengeance or justice? It didn't matter. They couldn't remember which day it was that they decided they would take matters into their own hands, but what they did know, was that things changed from that point on. For better or for worse . . .

O.O

The room was dark and dank. A hard stone floor provided little comfort for its sole occupant. But then again, he was used to it. The lack of light, the uneven floor, all just gave him time to do one thing. Sit and think. Curling up into a near foetal position, he closed his eyes, in deep thought. No-one interrupted him, nothing but the occasional sliding in of stale bread and water. Every 6 hours, 32 minutes and 3 seconds, give or take nine.

There, he heard the door creaking open. Punctual as always. The huge iron door, with its rivets, 1000 rivets to be precise, at a 1 centimetre interval along the whole door. The hinges, rusted, but tougher than a dragon's scale.

A figure walked in, his upper part eaten by darkness. "Lunch time, you stupid mutts." There was the metallic clang of a tray on the floor, and what little water spilled onto the cold earth floor.

There was no movement from the prisoner. Normally the guards wouldn't care less whether they ate the food or not, but this one somehow started kicking him, calling him to a swine and to 'get up and don't waste this food'. This Stabbington brother was hoping for that actually. The plan was counting on that.

"And where's your dumb brother?" he asked, just as a shape slunk from the corners behind him.

The next second, the guard was hanging up-side down, being held up by a hand, and shaken until his keys fell out. Cutjack caught it before it fell to the ground.

He started to scream, but was cut short by a punch to the face, and his body hung limp in Cyclops's hands. They dropped him, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind them. They started making their way out of the dungeon, sneaking through the shadows to avoid the ten guards who were normally on patrol, taking care not to disturb their game of bridge.

The next day every street crier will be yelling news of the escape of the two most nefarious criminals in Corona Kingdom, and rumors will spread about their ensuing death threats towards the Lost Princess, now found.

They knew it was jealousy blinding them and fueling their hate, making them not see things clearly. But they let it, allowing the dark emotions to spread over them and crawl spider-like into their heart and poison it. Time heals all wounds, they said. But it doesn't. It gives it room to grow, and fester, until what you're dealing with is a cold, dead, black heart encased inside a steel coffin. Now, they were back in their element. Their need for revenge empowered them in a way biceps could not.

And it gave them purpose. A reason to see the next day through, and to look forward for the other. Because they were slowly reaching that fateful day, when one year ago, Flynn Rider betrayed them. Turned their whole world up-side down.

The day they lost everything.

There was nothing left for them. They had nothing left to lose. Fail, and they would be back in the jail cell, maybe hanged to put an end to their misery if the guards were merciful. Succeed, and they leave the world with an indelible mark of their making, remembered as dangerous men to be feared, royal assassins. They knew where to strike. They knew where it would hurt most. What was the girl's name again? Rapunzel.

Soon they will repay the favour. Flynn Rider would get the ending he truly deserved. And Flynn Rider would lose _everything_.

**Author's Note**: A big thank you to T_wilified23, LilRockerStar, believe-you-can, Juliet'lovestory, Hanging on a Thread, AIOFanNCRM, splattermusic, Tangled in the Supernatural, 101Witch101, and CallMeIshmael_ for your very uplifting and encouraging reviews and personal messages throughout my writing this story. It has helped me tremendously and kept me going from chapter to chapter. Seriously, I don't know what I'll do without you guys.

There's a ton more of you who placed this story on Alert and on Favorites. Some of you I've already done so, _but Airplane, Irlandaise, julieluvswriting, Len83, Not-A-Gleep, Raven Morning, 0123tangledfan3210, Cmusiclover92, Devsash, mrs. sam winchester, Rissa0017, and Spacecase Writer_, thank you for reading my story and for showing your support. Hat goes off to you guys.

I hope you've enjoyed the story. I look forward to making more Tangled fiction in the future.


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